To Be A Hero
by Black Griffin1
Summary: Angels, demons, and humans. When war abounds, heroes of all kinds search for solutions, but will only find truth. This is the story of many heroes striving for something more.
1. Prologue

Disclaimer: I'm a broke college student who isn't making any money off of writing this story. In short, don't sue me because you would be barking up the wrong tree.

_Isn't it odd how one little action can change everything? Hate can end a life, but love can give it. The question remains: what will you choose? Love, or hate? I know the correct answer. Choosing it is another matter entirely. I think this is the real test of inner-strength, of being a hero_. - Flux Gravija, Vizjerei mage of the fourth circle.

**OoOoOoO**

Katja released another arrow into the fray. The rogue's aim held true as the arrow sailed over a group of monstrous, winged balrogs. They were engaged in brutal physical combat with Canen, a raven-haired warrior from the east, and the lithe monk, Hayden. The scaled balrogs ignored their impressive fire-breathing abilities for the moment to clash swords with the warrior, smashing steel against steel with little skill, but great strength. Canen grunted, straining his overworked muscles against the mighty beasts. He managed to parry every attack the balrogs threw, dancing about the battlefield with a grace that belied his massive size, but he didn't have time for any sort of retaliation. The last three monsters circled their prey, searching for a killing blow.

They struck in synchronized blows, cutting vertically with their crudely forged swords. Canen dodged the first with a side step, and parried the second strike with a horizontal chop from his beloved sword, _Griswold's Edge_. The last balrog attacked from behind, sending a scathing wave of inferno into Canen's armored back. The fire surrounded him, concealing his form from the rest of the battle for a brief second. His metal clad figure remained standing strong when the fire cleared, muttering an unheard prayer amidst the scorching heat. He would lose the battle if something didn't happen soon. The realization hit him roughly, jarring his concentration to the point of affecting his fighting. His shield missed one of the balrogs' sloppy overhead chops, biting through the air with deadly venom. The cruel sword cut deeply into his shield arm, bypassing the armor as if it was not even there.

The darkly toned man shrieked in pain, recoiling from the blow. Smelling blood and sensing a quick kill, the balrog trio closed in. It was not to be, for Canen had recovered by the time the other two winged beasts came within sword range. The closest demon reared its head back in preparation, intending to char his mahogany skin to nothing more than a pile of wayward ashes. Flashing an out of place brilliant smile, Canen jumped into the air, switching his sword to a backhanded grip. He spun a full two and half rotations midair, using the momentum to propel his strike through a scaled neck. Canen landed next to the decapitated balrog just as its head reached the apex of its arc, splattering vile blood over the remaining combatants.

Unfortunately his flashy maneuver left him between the two remaining balrogs. The closer one on his left struck first with another overhead slash. Canen wasn't prepared to block the blow, so he did the only thing he could. Ducking below the strike by mere inches, he tackled the beast just below the waist, sending them crashing to the ground. Beast and man tumbled over several times, grappling with bare hands and claws. Green tinged talons swiped at Canen's face, but he was prepared for the blow. The warrior slammed his right arm into the balrog's forearm just below the claw, knocking it safely out of his face. Less than a second later the balrog was twitching its death throes, a knife jutting out the neck. Canen wasted too much time in the effort, and the last balrog's sword was already chopping down before Canen even thought to look behind.

Salvation came in the form of a brightly clothed monk. Hayden, silent as always, found an opening behind Canen's fire attacking foe and shattered the balrog's spine at the base of the neck. The demon crumpled to the ground even as Hayden glanced about for a new opponent, keen senses detecting a shadowed figure some distance away. His enemy revealed herself to be a beautiful young woman. A small red bikini made little attempt to cover her harsh snow-blue skin and delicate features. She glided gracefully on a pair of large electric blue wings that matched her unnatural hair in color, drawing attention to her sweat glistening body. Hayden noticed her face, snarling and contorted with anger and bloodlust, pitying the creature's poor frame of mind. Still, her beauty gave him enough pause for her to execute a vicious snap kick to his temple, felling the tanned body of Hayden to the ground. The most unusual succubus lifted her right leg in preparation for a scissor kick to finish Hayden off. In a moment of bravery, or perhaps stupidity, Canen rushed to rescue his partner in arms.

**OoOoOoO**

_It was a gathering like none other. The paladins of Zakarum, what was left of them, convened to decide the fate of their order._

"_Half the brotherhood is corrupted! The people are so afraid of us that they are attacking anyone that even looks like they might be a paladin. The commoners are rioting in all of Westmarch, and need I remind you of the massacres in the Zakarum temples? We cannot remain here any longer."_

_Another voice spoke out. "We need to repent for our sins, and those of our brethren. The order will be secured when the taint is removed."_

_The first spoke again. "Then we must operate in complete obscurity, for our own safety as well as others'."_

_A third, guttural voice raised itself above the murmuring. "We must go to the Kurast temple and destroy the evil at its source. I know I am not the only among us who can sense that horrific aura surrounding our home."_

_Murmuring of agreement could be heard among the gathered troops. More than a year before, only paladins with the finest attunement to the spiritual realm could sense a tinge of evil lingering among the ancient holy temple they served and prayed in. Now, most acolytes, and even the more promising squires were constantly overwhelmed with the powerful scent of demonic presence. It was a paladin's bane. The weaker willed paladins became sickly, as if the taint was a disease. Disease festered in the brain of the most unfortunate paladins, leaving them mad and incoherently babbling in the brig, or completely twisted to evil, turning on former comrades with an all too familiar self-righteous zeal. The paladins of Zakarum could not trust their own in these times, let alone the outsiders lacking spiritual training that frequented their temple._

"_What of Tristram?" an inquisitive young voice asked. "There are reports of corruption reaching even the great King Leoric, and demons are said to roam the lands at night. Not just in spirit either, these demons have entered our realm in the flesh!"_

_The first responded quickly. "Tristram is already flooded with would-be heroes. Focus on the task at hand, young Canen. I will have none of this nonsense in the perilous times we are facing."_

"_Sir! These would-be heroes are nothing more than farmers with pitch forks and harvesting scythes. They won't stand a chance against the legions of Hell."_

"_Remember your place Canen. We will deal with Tristram once we have secured the future of our order." The first voice was commanding this time. The temporary Zakarum leader paused for effect, letting silence do all the speaking for him. He stood, stone-faced, challenging the room for authority. His ceremonial armor seemed to glisten in the darkly lit room, adding an air of respect, though the stoutly built man was only slightly older than the average paladin. His skills in combat vastly outweighed his age in the battle-heavy times, earning him a place at the top of the remaining Zakarum. There would be no further discussion or convincing the determined man, and the edge of the elder paladin's voice threatened Canen should he continue._

_He didn't. Canen instead left the meeting room, never to return to his sacred order. He planned to save Tristram without the help of his tainted past. Briskly walking through the halls, Canen let his shoulders slump in defeat. Anger grew with each consecutive step, building to a previously inexperienced intensity. His breathing became labored with rage, until his massive chest heaved with excitement. Briefly, he jumped at the realization that he had lost his cool. Paladins did not succumb to rage like their grisly neighbors to the north. His closely cropped, frizzy black hair did not bounce or flail as he shook his head in shame. He continued walking._

_A voice halted him barely ten paces from the building; Canen stopped on the temple stairs, trying to compose himself. The voice was young and energetic, yet weighted down with responsibility. The paladin said simply "Don't go." Canen knew this voice intimately, having long since tuned his ears to hear the surprisingly melodic sound amidst a full-on battle. That voice had saved his life more than once, calling out words of caution and advice even as they fought their enemies in close quarters combat._

_Canen turned around to face his childhood friend and brother in arms. "Sturm, you won't convince me this time. I'm leaving for good, and I'm going to save a lot of people our 'illustrious elders' have damned through their inaction" Canen responded, mocking their leader. "Please don't ask me to stay."_

_Sturm's bright armor clinked as he crossed his arms. He shook his head deeply, long blonde hair shaking behind him as he did. Sturm and Canen had survived more horrors together in their young age than most men did in ten lifetimes. The life of a paladin was harsh, constantly fluctuating to meet the needs of the elders in the order. The one constant in his life had always been Canen, who was now leaving him. Sturm frowned, eyes becoming glassy with fresh tears, and he turned his head in shame. "Go with the Light, brother. Through it, I will always watch over you."_

_Responding was something Canen simply couldn't do. He didn't want to tell his closest friend of the horrible things he thought. Canen mused over recent events in the brotherhood, disgusted with the outcome his peers seemed intent on reaching. He glanced at his ally, his friend, his brother. Previously there had been no secret between the two. How he longed to tell of his worries over a campfire, and heed the sage advice Sturm always contributed. There would be no discussion, no advice, and certainly no campfire. How could they just abandon an entire town? Canen continued on in silence, without looking back. No, he would definitely not speak of his greatest challenge, his great sin. How could he come to grips with the fact that he had lost his faith? After all, a faithless paladin is less than a man – let alone a knight._

_He promised the heavens then and there to never utilize the coveted holy skills granted to those faithful paladins. He would defend the Light on his own terms._

**OoOoOoO**

Canen had kept that promise to this very day. But as he charged forward to save his comrade's life, he realized that he was not fighting to his full potential and his friends might die because of it. There were few greater sins committed by man. His stubborn attitude was the next obstacle for him to overcome, and overcome it he did. In that instant, with Hayden on the floor courting death right in front of him, Canen regained that which was most precious to him. He had regained his faith in humanity.

Resolved to atone for his folly, he muttered a prayer to the angels for guidance. The speed of his next actions surprised even him as his muscles snapped into a fiercely aggressive movement. Raising his shield and drawing back _Griswold's Edge _which began to glow, Canen charged the few feet to the deceptively beautiful snow witch. He concentrated on his long dormant holy powers, choosing his favorite skill among a paladin's arsenal. The sword became a brightly-lit white fire, and Canen poured his soul into his sword arm. He pleaded with the heavens to aid him in his quest, to dead heroes whose souls remained to guard all of Sanctuary, and to those living beings with enough power to aid him. A familiar presence washed over him, coursing through his body with a never before imagined inner-strength. He felt as if a close friend had showered his mind with love and power. Canen reveled in the feeling, but quickly as it had appeared, the presence left him

His hand moved almost of its own accord, lashing out with a fury that could only be called righteous vengeance. Succubus flesh yielded no resistance as _Griswold's Edge_ passed clean through her. The blade shined with a holy light, and did not draw blood from the demon as it should have. Canen knew his prayers did not fall on deaf ears, but it would be months before Hayden could explain what he saw from his grounded vantage point. To him, it didn't matter. The snow witch lay motionless on the floor. Canen had repaid the monk for an uncounted time, and Hayden was saved.

Before Canen could smile in relief, a red energy burst from the edge of the battle impacted his abdomen. The blood star projectile exploded with force upon the former paladin, blowing a melon sized hole in his chest and spraying gore even as he dropped to the ground, lifeless. The mighty warrior had fallen. Fighting didn't slow, nor did it increase its tempo. The battle continued, barely recognizing the defeat of quite possibly one of the greatest men to ever walk on Sanctuary's grounds. Katja allowed herself a moment's respite before she released her tightly drawn bow. _Another warrior of the Light is dead, and for what?_ Her next arrow sailed over Canen's bloody body, and found its mark, embedding itself into the neck of the Lord of Terror himself.

For better or worse, the fight would end soon.

A Vizjerei mage avenged his fallen comrade, frying a succubus with a potent lightning bolt. Blue energy crackled between his fingertips, and the bolt jumped to another succubus, then another. The powerful mage smiled grimly as the last of Diablo's minions lay dead.

Diablo was not impressed. "Do you really think you can overcome me?" he challenged. The Lord of Terror stepped forward, claws slicing easily into the stone floor. He stretched his scaled hide to his full size, standing easily twice the height of his human opponents.

The heroes did not respond verbally. Unlike his remaining allies, the Vizjerei magi's sandaled feet made a scuffling sound as he attempted retreat. Shoulders trembled uncontrollably from a newfound fear swelling deep within him as Diablo cut him off from his allies. He was cornered. Diablo raised a mighty claw, red sparks already forming. A crack of thunder sounded off as a torrent of destructive energy flowed towards the hapless sorcerer. The magic geyser enveloped him, obscuring the lightly armored man from view.

"No!" Katja screamed, even while nocking one of her last four arrows. Her mind was clouded with rage, and she sought to clear it, remembering the words of Flavie, her instructor years before. _To accept the help of the great eye, you must clear your mind of all emotion. _

_Reach _nihilo. Katja's hand grasped the arrow firmly. She would not miss the shot.

_Breathe out. _She drew the bow tightly, taking careful aim. Determination was in great supply.

_Release._ Her mind was indeed clear. Her wrath would be felt.

The arrow flew, and was soon joined by three others. The first arrow embedded itself into the back of the Lord of Terror's neck, disappearing from view. Diablo kicked up freshly crushed stone as he spun on his heel to face the new threat.

The next two arrows glanced off the demon lord's thick scales at his chest, falling to the ground harmlessly. But the last caused much more damage. It bore directly into the demon's left eye, passing easily through the soft matter, and ended its trip in the back of the skull, arrowhead exposed from the rear. The demon lord stumbled back, roaring in anguish. A red river flowed down Diablo's face, matching the color of his scaly hide, yet he did not fall.

Katja stared in disbelief. _The demon is still alive!_ She drew her bastard sword, tossing the useless bow to the ground. She rushed forward and attacked the still stumbling Lord of Terror. Her first swing clumsily grazed Diablo's arm. The demon lord backhanded her, sending her flying twenty feet. She dropped her sword midair, bounced on the ground, and rolled to a stop, unconscious.

Suddenly, splintered, ashen wood connected with the demon lord's skull with a resounding crack. Hayden's resolve had not wavered once during the entire campaign, and he would see the task done, or die trying. Stone faced, he continued the staff's upward swing, changing direction, he slammed Diablo's temple in a brutal horizontal strike. Diablo, the Lord of Terror, was sent reeling to the ground. His breathing became labored, and his good eye closed. Diablo was unconscious. _Now is my chance._ Before the monk could finish off his foe, a robed figure teleported in front of him.

"His forehead, Hayden. He can't die until we remove his essence from the host."

A confused look played across Hayden's tanned face. The robed figure removed his hood, revealing a burned, but still quite alive Vizjerei sorcerer. Hayden only nodded, submitting to the leader of the group. The mage gingerly stepped over the still form of the most powerful demon on earth, and began to laugh. Nearly inaudible at first, the laughter grew more intense, both in volume and fervor, reaching a hysterical level. Hayden jumped back in surprise. The sorcerer had gone mad. _The horrors we have faced here must have broken him._

The mage drew a shimmering knife made of hardened bone. Its handle bore the insignia _Wizardspike_. Hayden had seen the mage use that knife in most inventive manners in battle previously, drawing upon his magical abilities as well as the power residing in the blade. It was his most favored possession. The Vizjerei sorcerer plunged the dagger into the demon's head, carving a rough circle.

He finished carving, and laughed manically once more. The mage had truly lost all sense of reason as he jerked the soul stone from Diablo's head with a spray of blood and gore. "Your reign is over, demon." He raised the dripping stone to his face, examining the strange artifact.

"I don't know what you are planning, mage, but nothing good will come of that stone."

"Your simple mind could never understand such matters; you know not of the forces at work here. I must do this, for the good of humanity!" the sorcerer cried, raising the stone high into the air. He turned, whipping his cloak behind him, to face Hayden. "Watch, pitiful fool, as I contain the demon's essence!" The sorcerer's eyes glinted with power, and his grim smile hinted at something not quite right. Then, to the astonishment of the quieted monk, he impaled the stone into his own forehead. Diablo's destroyed form, lying still on the ground, slowly transformed into that of a young boy. The young prince's broken body lay on the stone floor, shaking, but still alive. His pasty limbs, shriveled as if from atrophy, reached out for some invisible object. Hayden stood dumbfounded. The Lord of Terror was no more! It was then that Hayden returned his gaze to the Vizjerei sorcerer.

The mage's countenance had shifted slightly. It was almost imperceptible. His features looked the same on the surface, but his normal genial aura and kind face were now replaced with something more… sinister. Hayden drank in the image of the mage. His tattered robes and armor were burned, almost unusable. The shield the mage once held now lay a good distance away, melted and shattered beyond repair. Hayden's eyes moved to the sorcerer's wounds, noticing the rapid healing taking place: the burns that had covered his body moments before had vanished, and the deep gash from a balrog sword in his side was visibly closing. The Vizjerei laughed heartily, an octave deeper than normal. He then glared at the monk with an intense hatred burning in his eyes, but only for a moment. The kind look had returned to the sorcerer's face, but it would never be as assuring as it once was for the monk. The mage grinned, and for the first time in his life, Hayden felt fear.

**OoOoOoO**

Author's Notes: Greetings, fellow fan fiction goers. I posted this story in a previous form, but I have since edited it. I hope the changes prove to be a success, and I would love to have feedback from you (the readers). This story is as much for you as it is me. I only hope that I can do justice to the other writers in the Diablo section. Courage and compassion to you all, and please read and review!


	2. Early Celebration

_You didn't know. Nobody did. We were all fooled grievously, but you did the right thing, you know. Please don't say you are sorry, or that you regret it. You've saved so many lives with your sacrifice. People will be singing your song for eternity. You're a hero, brother. _– Arcanna Gravija, former Zann Esu witch

**OoOoOoO**

The people of Tristram gathered at the center of town, the local well. The sounds of battle had ceased for the first time in weeks, after a terrible, inhumane roar erupted from the fiery chasm. The rift had opened itself up seemingly of its own accord less than three days earlier on the southwest edge of the tortured village. A group of heroes, the ones of the week at least, had ventured into the chasm depths, claiming Diablo, the Lord of Terror himself, was waiting for them. Now the townspeople didn't know what to do. Deckard Cain, the town's unofficial ruler, stood silently, shifting on his feet in anticipation of the coming argument. Though learned and wise, the last of the Horadrim was an advisor, not a true leader. Picking at his heavy, worn, brown cloak, he sat on the edge of the well, resolving to not take part in the town's decision. Griswold, the town's blacksmith, was the first to speak up in his guttural, thick accent.

"We should go after them" the slightly overweight man declared. Although new to the town, this particular group of adventurers had won the blacksmith over in a brief period of time. He recalled countless times the diverse group of heroes impressed him, and the town with their constant displays of martial prowess against seemingly impossible odds. The group of adventurers had succeeded in taking the fight to the demons for the first time since Lachdanan's questing. _What a dismal end our dear captain and his knights came across for it, too._ He reached a calloused, chubby hand to his side and grasped his smithy hammer for comfort. Sighing deeply, he fingered the cracked flathead of the tool. Days earlier, it fractured when he crafted without a doubt the finest sword he had ever forged on the legendary Anvil of Fury. The outgoing warrior Canen's massive frame had beamed with pride both when he presented the enchanted anvil to Griswold, and when Griswold bestowed the elegant blade to the warrior as payment. The two had shared a common bond since day one, understanding each other's roles in the bleak times surrounding them, and becoming vastly important to one another. _That was the last I saw of the kid. I hope he is faring well._

"No. It is better to let them come to us, if they still live." Adria spoke for the first time since her arrival, breaking the silence. The old witch was hunched over with age, leaning heavily upon her staff for support, and her eyes darted around as if looking for an unseen threat. Shaking her blue cloak off her head, she revealed the rest of her aged face. Flowing grey locks framed a wrinkled and repugnant countenance, lips permanently curled in a snarl. The years had not been kind to the woman. She rubbed her staff, a dangerously powerful item knowing her, and continued. "It is best to stay here and face whatever comes out on our own ground."

None dared refute the old witch's wisdom. As a practitioner of the magical arts, she was an outcast, feared and respected. Some looked to Deckard Cain for confirmation – regardless of his involvement in the conversation, he was the only political figurehead the ravaged town had left. Cain only nodded his head, and averted his eyes. _I won't condone sending another innocent to certain death ever again! These people are all fools. They haven't seen true terror, even in these times. _ The townspeople huddled closer, eyes glued to the fiery chasm, waiting impatiently for something to surface. They did not have to wait long.

Emerging first was a taller than average, lithe looking man. A deep tan, a freshly shaven head save a generous pony tail, and a handsome face made the moderately armored man very pleasing to look upon. A comely woman lay unconscious in his arms. Rich brown hair cascaded over her limp body, hiding the fact that her well muscled form was in fact larger than the man who carried her. Hayden's biceps curled up in effort, proving that he must have carried Katja a great distance indeed. The monk's scale mail and cape were in a horrendous condition, contrasting greatly with the identical armor of Katja. Numerous gashes and rents adorned his mail, exposing bare skin and open wounds beneath. Fortunately, none of the wounds were very serious and he lacked the burns of their comrade due to his nimble fighting style. He was simply too quick and agile for the slower magical projectiles to be very effective. Katja stirred in the arms of Hayden, snuggling closer into him for comfort before passing out again. The monk smiled in spite of his beaten body, and weary heart. He had lost many friends on this campaign.

The figure that followed Hayden and Katja shocked the townspeople, and an audible collective gasp could be heard as he walked into the sunlight. The young boy flinched at the intrusive light, and he teetered forward. Before he could fall, a darkly skinned arm, covered in a brightly colored turinash, or spirit robe, that could only be from a sorcerer of the far east, stopped his fall. The boy let out a small cry of fear, and jerkily ran towards the town. Gillian, a fair bar maiden was the first to voice what everyone else in the town was thinking.

"Prince Albrecht, you have returned to us! We all thought you had surely perished long ago in the depths of that dreadful cathedral." Recognizing his name, the young price altered direction and tackle-hugged the woman. Gillian stood, prince in her arms, dumbfounded. As the heir to the throne, she would have been punished severely for ever touching the boy, simply for being low class. Sobbing like an infant, the prince held on to Gillian's waist fiercely, as if letting go would mean certain death. Gillian hesitated only for a few seconds, pushing thoughts of capital punishment out of her mind, before warmly embracing the emaciated young prince. He needed support, and she was the only one who could give it to him at the moment, social rules be damned. Gillian was a good woman, and it didn't go unnoticed. Flaxen haired Ogden, the town's innkeeper, stared intensely with desire. Although the two spent most of their time together, both working and after, he hadn't asked her the big question just yet. The ring, a plain silver band, rested in Ogden's front pocket. _There is nothing stopping me now that the town is saved. Tonight it is, then._

Cheers roared through the small town, filling the air with a palpable energy, the likes not tasted by Adria since King Leoric first ascended to the throne. The crowd swelled with the hundreds of would-be adventurers living in Ogden's inn, raising the cheering by decibels. It was the first time the people of Tristram felt raw, pure joy in many months. Numerous warriors, rogues, bards, and even the occasional sorcerer or monk drifted to the town center to partake in the celebration. The demonic taint that plagued Tristram was finally gone, and even the most magically inept could sense it deep within his or her being. Adria sighed heavily, both in relief and out of weariness. Witchcraft was taxing on the mind, body, and soul, and she had been at it furiously since the beginning of the darker times that befell Tristram. She could rest her old bones now, and perhaps even take on an apprentice. _I'm not getting any younger, and this town won't survive without a witch._

Flames licked high in the air, dancing playfully to the music of the few bards who still possessed enough skill for the task. Few had wanted to listen to the bards' music in the grim times, which meant even fewer parted with coin for their efforts. Now, coin and music alike flowed just as freely as the ale. This was a time of celebration indeed. Night made its presence known, darkening the sky to a beautiful reddish-orange, tinged with azure. The celebration became a fabulous party, reminding Adria of her younger years. Though her unfortunate face and body did not suggest it, she had been a rare beauty in her time, and a wild one at that. The old witch chuckled to herself in amusement, pondering the past. _It has certainly been an unusual journey for me._ As she circled the bonfire, she noticed the Vizjerei sorcerer sitting cross-legged before the fire, muttering to himself in a language she did not recognize. Eyebrows raised wrinkled skin up a few notches as Adria approached the mysterious man. He continued speaking to himself in the strange language, even as Adria sat next to him.

Adria leaned closer to get a better view of him. The bonfire created playful shadows on his face, obscuring it quite well, with a few short bursts when the shadows played somewhere else for a bit, revealing his worn face. He stared blankly at the fire, ignoring her completely. His face was creased, with a dusting of darker facial hair. He could easily be twenty or fifty; his was a timeless face, as with most users of magic. The thing that Adria paid particular attention to was his forehead. It was scabbed over in a circle just below his hairline, as if he had received a nasty wound and had it cauterized. Keen magical senses told her that it was no natural wound, so she examined further. If she looked at the right angle, she could make out the shape of some cylindrical piece of red stone, just beneath the skin. _Red stone… Where have I heard of that before? _Bright red trimmed in gold and blue flashed before her eyes, and she realized the sorcerer was looking at her. His turinash settled around him, and he glowered at her for staring at his head wound. Her wrinkled face twisted in confusion. _I know I have heard of a red stone in a forehead before._ Suddenly, realization dawned on her.

"Flux Gravija, what have you done to yourself?" she half-whispered. Her tone was harsh, stunning the sorcerer. He gathered himself, and looked at her in a resigned, beaten fashion. His visage explained everything; he had sacrificed himself to wrestle with the demon for all eternity for control over his own body.

"There was no other choice… He, I dare not say his name here as it might give him power, would have just taken another host. I had to force his hand." Flux replied, shaking almost imperceptibly. Unable to take the intense look Adria was giving him, he turned to the fire and continued. "Isn't it odd how one little action can change everything? Hate can end a life, but love can give it. The question remains: what will you choose? Love or hate? I know the correct answer. Choosing it is another matter entirely. I think this is the real test of inner-strength, of being a hero."

Adria placed a comforting hand on the sorcerer, tears spilling freely, pooling at her feet. The Vizjerei mage had sacrificed his entire being for the good of humankind, knowing that he would eventually be overpowered by Diablo. His soul would belong to the demon in time, condemning him to an eternity of possession, and anguish. "My dear Flux..." Her voice faltered, but she pressed on "…what you did was out of love, of that I am certain. Your decision was a very brave one, and also one with many consequences." She took his hands in her own as the shadows danced over their faces. She sobered up, and became suddenly serious and commanding. "You cannot stay here Flux. It's too dangerous, for everyone."

He didn't seem to hear her. "I fear that I made the wrong choice." His voice was somber, and he began crying as well. "Dear God. Adria, what if I made the wrong choice?" He turned to her, resting his head on the woman's shoulder, embracing her. Adria was shocked. Flux Gravija had always been friendly, and outgoing. He had never shown a negative emotion to the people of Tristram, always pointing out the good in every situation. He was the best kind of friend one could hope for, but now he was a mess. Hope was a luxury he had lost the second Diablo's soul stone pierced his head.

"There is no right choice on this. Grave matters of angels and demons should never have been brought into our realm. The only thing we can do is deal with it as best we can. And that, my dear, is what you have done, and are doing even at this moment." Adria's words sang in Flux's ears as true, and as beautiful as any he had ever heard. The old witch was wise beyond her years, and experienced in ways he could not know. She had an outlook forged by an insightful soul, and tempered in heated times of war and demons. Besides Deckard, and the warriors who fought Diablo himself, she was the only person in Tristram that truly understood the events that transpired in the fiery chasm beneath the town.

"You are an amazing woman Adria. I find it hard to believe that you have remained single all these years." She smiled warmly at the compliment. "Though I doubt you would have wanted a man around to distract you." Her smile broadened. He had a decent grasp of her inner workings, and he was using it to flatter her. He reached within his robe, causing the elderly woman to jump. Slowly, for her comfort, he removed his hand, revealing the spectacularly crafted bone knife, _Wizardspike_. Adria's eyes gleamed. For all her skill at making magical items, she had never been able to create anything that could compare to the dagger he held in front of her.

"I have a sister, Arcanna. She will come here for me once she hears the ordeal is over. I won't be here to give her this. Will you give it to her for me?" Adria nodded, and grabbed the knife from his burned right hand. She gazed at the peculiar knife, tracing a finger along its shaft. Eventually she slipped it beneath her cloak. Wordlessly, she left the bonfire and celebration, looking for Deckard.

She found him in front of Griswold's shop, discussing rebuilding that would take place of the town. Besides being a weapon master, the grizzled blacksmith was a superb carpenter, able the build multiple storied houses given enough wood and time. The town had lost a few buildings to fire and demon attack early on in the darker times, and they planned to start rebuilding them as soon as possible. The shop was well lit, so Griswold and Deckard noticed her approach early on, turning to face her as she came near.

"Deckard Cain," she began, leaning on her staff and breathing heavily, "we have a problem." Her grey eyes spoke volumes. Deckard bowed slightly to Griswold, taking his leave. When Adria spoke of trouble, it was not wise to procrastinate. Almost to reaffirm this point, Deckard thought of the last time Adria had offered to speak in this manner. It had been when King Leoric was first haunted with bad dreams. Nobody, save Adria, knew the true cause of his terrorizing dreams. She was refused entrance to the palace, and everyone in Tristram knew the terrible outcome of that decision. King Leoric, Prince Albrecht, and the Arch-Bishop Lazarus had all disappeared the very next night, signifying the beginning of the demon infestation. All of Tristram dramatically shifted views of the crazy, solitary woman to fear and respect, after that.

**OoOoOoO**

Hayden stood by her at all times. Many women asked, pleaded, and even begged him to leave her side, if for only a single dance, but he always denied them. Over the past two months, he had grown quite fond of Katja. Not sexually, of course, but he had come to view her as a close friend. After losing so many friends on the campaign to defeat Diablo, he was not going to leave her so long as she was wounded.

"Are you going to watch over me all night?" the rogue asked. _It's endearing really, but he can't just stand there all night! _"It's a party, Hayden. Celebrate."

She sat on the course log bench, waiting for him to say something. Her hair, normally tied in a pony tail, hung limply around her face. He pushed her rich, brown hair back, revealing her countenance. She was a plain woman, muscular, tall, and had typical features for a woman in the western territories. Still, she held some sort of extra allure, with her face scrunched up in irritation. It was clear that she was used to getting her way.

He smiled broadly, revealing rows of pristine, white teeth. Sitting next to her, he began checking the bandages covering her wounded side. Diablo's fury had been intense; the single blow he landed upon her broke ribs, pushing internal organs aside, causing her much pain. She was lucky her broken ribs didn't pierce anything vital; else she would have bled to death in Hayden's arms on the way back to town.

"Will you leave me be!" she demanded. "I'm fine, really. Go dance, I know you love to."

"If that is what you wish, my lady." Hayden relented, bowing in the process. Marching to the dancing area, he reflected on his friend. _She can be quite demanding at times, but she has a good heart._

Katja watched her friend begin to sway rhythmically in time with the music. His was an unusual style of dancing, incorporating spins, dips, leaps, and a lot of pelvic thrusting. He moved effortlessly through the crowd of dancers, gracefully bounding, flipping his arms in wide circles and spinning as he did._ His dancing is strange, just like his fighting style. It suits him though._ The music became more bass intensive, and the singing stopped altogether. The crowd created a large circle around Hayden, allowing his 6'1" body enough room to do the more acrobatic dance moves that he preferred. Percussion instruments filled the air, increasing the tempo, causing the monk to dance savagely, with a zeal that startled onlookers at first. Katja smiled, watching him dance. He was completely lost in the music, and she doubted if anything could disturb him in the state he was in. Tumbling forward, he reversed motion, executing a back flip, landing in time with the final note of the song. The crowd cheered.

Katja grimaced as a wave of pain shot up from her injured side. _Perhaps watching his eccentric dancing wasn't the best idea. Still, it was worth it._ She gazed at a couple on an adjacent log bench. The fair featured man with flaxen hair dropped to one knee, holding an outstretched hand to the woman. Gillian squealed with delight, and quickly adorned the silver band. _Looks like this just became an engagement party. _The music played on.

**OoOoOoO**

Moonlight wisped glowing tendrils across the gravel road to Adria's shack on the eastern side of the village. To any casual observer, it would appear to be an aging couple on a midnight stroll, delirious with love, even after so many years of marriage. Deckard and Adria strolled arm in arm purposely, to keep that appearance up, intent on keeping the townspeople ignorant of the dark matters they discussed. The people needed celebration to lift their spirits, deserved it even. Crazy, old, and outcasts they may have been, but Adria and Deckard were not heartless.

"He will lose control eventually." Adria stated matter-of-factly. "He seems to be fine for the moment, but when the demon overcomes him, and we can be certain that he will, he will be all the more powerful in that Vizjerei master's body. Oh Deckard" she paused, not wishing to continue her thoughts, "I fear Tristram won't survive this." She shivered suddenly, and stumbled on the gravel path. Deckard steadied her, moving his arm from hers, to her waist. He left his arm there, as he responded.

"This is terrible news indeed. Our course of action is clear. You know I hate to ask of it, my old friend, but the mage clans need to be warned. Nay, everyone must be warned. You must go to the ancient forests near Scosglen and beseech help from the druids; to the temple of the Viz-Jaq'taar in Westmarch to enlist the help of the deadly women there; you must even warn the priests of Rathma under the fetid jungles of the east. If you cannot reach any of these places personally, you must send a messenger." Cain swallowed hard, and looked passionately in the grey eyes of Adria. "Uileloscadh Mór is approaching. We must be prepared."

Adria stiffened at the mention of Uileloscadh Mór. _The final battle between humans and demons? I never would have imagined it would happen in my time. _Bracing herself on her staff, she began chanting quietly. Her staff started to glow, faintly at first, but increasing in brilliance until its light rivaled the bonfire in the middle of town. Her chanting became louder, but Deckard could not hear it. The staff released a low pitched rumble, masking Adria's chanting, and then the bright yellow light suddenly vanished, leaving a perfect quiet, and a perfect dark behind.

Deckard stared in amazement. He had seen magic before naturally, but never anything quite so dramatic, or amazing. Adria's weathered face grinned in triumph, sweat dripping, and mana depleted. The mighty staff was recharged.

"What was that?" he asked, giddy as a child.

"I channeled energy into this staff. It contains an old magic, older than either of us, or our orders for that matter. I can travel great distances with this artifact in the blink of an eye, but its toll is heavy. I have to recharge it periodically; else it would sap my own energies dry." She was a driven woman now, with a course plotted for her, and the means to accomplish her tasks. Deckard's mouth opened as if to say something, but no words came out. With a twinkle in her eye, she moved to open the door to her shack.

"What? How do you think I've kept my wares in stock when we haven't had a caravan stop by in months?" the old woman teased, disappearing behind the closing door. Deckard heard a faint noise, similar to two pieces of metal grinding upon one another, and a brief glow emerged from the slit under Adria's door.

"I don't think I will ever understand that woman." Deckard walked back to the bonfire with a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. His night would be filled with worry, and his dreams with demons. The music played on, and the people celebrated with light hearts for the first time since the demonic infestation. Deckard noticed Flux Gravija, the unfortunately doomed Vizjerei sorcerer grasp his head as he stumbled to his room in Ogden's tavern. _They will not be celebrating for long._

**OoOoOoO**

To my beloved reviewer, Mirith: Thank you for the review! I've never considered myself a spectacular writer, but I have always been on the lookout for ways to improve my writing. Now that I read over the first chapter again, it does have some choppy, shortened paragraphs that fly by some scenes. I'll be on the lookout for that in the future. As far as continuing the story of these characters, the answer is most definitely yes. I have long term plans for this story, though reality might keep me from updating as often as I would like. Thank you for your kind words!

Speaking of reviews, please do! I would love to know what the readers think, especially what works and what doesn't work. Thanks all!


	3. Desert Flowers

A/N: Sorry for the long delays between chapters. I have a lot of work with research, and getting into grad school, so I find very little time to update.

**OoOoOoO**

Dust and sand billowed around a short figure in the dark. Her rasping breath bristled across chapped lips, cracked and bleeding from weeks of intense travel through the harsh climate surrounding the Jewel City, Lut Gholein. Grunting, she wrapped her traveling cloak tighter around her small body in an attempt to keep warm against the frigid desert night.

"Ilzan, how much farther is it to this fucking temple?" she called to her guide. "If you're lying to me about these snakes, I swear I'll cut you" she threatened, unsheathing her enchanted stiletto as she did. The Arabian woman narrowed her doe brown eyes in anger when Ilzan didn't respond right away. The knife flared brilliantly with a fresh enchantment, illuminating her plain, soft features in a warm orange glow against the soft blue tint of the desert night. Arcanna wasn't playing around.

"Just an hour boss – the claw vipers nested in one of those old Horadrim mausoleums, only a bit past that set of dunes" Ilzan pointed directly ahead to a mass of sandy lumps in the distance. They were covered in an ethereal fog, painted a silver-blue under the midnight moon.

Unseen by the pair of adventurers lurked dozens of feline shapes. Veiled in fog and covered in darkened fur, the sabre cats would have been neigh invisible against the sandy backdrop, were they within human eyesight. As it was, the far more acute vision of the large cat beings alerted them to the human presence making their way towards them without fear of being seen in response. The scouting party kept a watchful eye on the human pair while they waited for the runner to return with the rest of the clan. Var'Shaan smiled in a predatory manner, thinking of the praise their queen would give him, for he had been the first to spot Arcanna and Ilzan.

He fingered his barbed whip handle in anticipation. _Boss'll be very pleased with this catch._ His hand claws shot out and retracted several times as Var'Shaan inspected them. He would need to sharpen them after the raid, he mused.

Arcanna sighed, stowing her stiletto in the intricately designed golden sheath at her hip. The brilliant shine of the sheath contrasted harshly against the flat metallic tinge of her light plated armor and the shimmering emerald Zann Esu sorceress dress underneath. Reaching behind her back, she retrieved a deadly looking war staff and walked on. _Just an hour my ass. He said that three days ago, and I'm still walking in this damnable desert. _Anger filled her facial features, and she contorted her mouth in a sneer. Some of her sorceress brethren mocked her emotionally charged persona, but she never gave them a second thought. They had never experienced the exhilaration that was true rage. And rage… well that was something she could use. Cackling to herself, she remembered her placement in the last Zann Esu tournament. She didn't win; on the contrary she placed barely in the top third of combatants, but she had accomplished her goal. She beat out every witch from her clan. _They couldn't beat me then, and these snakes won't hold up to me now._

Ilzan dutifully followed his leader towards the eerily translucent fog. The woman was driven, he'd give her that much. Most had outright laughed at her when she announced her destination to the mercenary captain just under a month ago. Claw vipers were deadly creatures, possessing amazing strength and agility, an impressive pack-hunting intelligence, and limited magical abilities. To steal an artifact, any artifact, from their main temple would result in a quick death for most would-be adventurers. Most of Greiz's mercenaries had laughed at her to her face. Ilzan wiped dried salt from his forehead, eager for the adventure sure to come. He wasn't like most of the dirty, hardly skilled mercenaries under Greiz. Gazing longingly at the yari in his hands, he felt confidence flush through him. _Hone Sundan_ was a family heirloom, dating back at least eight generations, passed from father to first-born son until the spear came into his possession. _No,_ he thought, _not like most mercenaries at all._

The desert wind howled eerily across the sand. Sabre cats amassed behind sand dunes while adventurers bravely marched towards their goal. Blood would be spilled this night.

**OoOoOoO**

Intense pain was the only thing she could remember. A quick burst of light, a disorienting feeling of elevation, but mostly intense pain. Mutilated bodies lay strewn about her in sickening mayhem. The blackened pool of coagulated blood from fallen creatures, demon and human alike, had spread across the entire floor, caking the area with a sticky gel. There had been a battle here. _A terribly costly battle for both sides, by the looks of it._

Shivering from an unexpectedly cold draft, she realized she was nude, save a small bit of red cloth covering her crotch. _Well this simply won't do._ Shoulders slumped in resignation as the immensely beautiful woman attempted to stand. Her limbs had already started to atrophy, causing her to stumble before she used a nearly shattered staff to support herself standing up. Finally standing, she surveyed the carnage around her in shock, with a slight bit of guilty pleasure. Battle seemed a familiar concept, and she felt a longing to return to it. In that instant she knew she was a warrior left for dead.

By luck, or more precisely, another's misfortune, an abandoned pack was readily available on the ground not too far from the woman. Fierce grumbling reminded her that she hadn't eaten in a very long time, so she made her way to the treasured pack. Most travelers and warriors kept foodstuffs in their bags, and she was not above scavenging in her weakened state. She prayed in thanks, to whom she didn't really know or care, when the beaten leather bag spilled stale bread, dried meat, and two water pouches.

Ravenously devouring the small cache of food, she failed to spot the last item in the bag until she had finished off the meat, bread, and an entire water pouch. Folded neatly, obscured from immediate sight at the bottom of the pack, lay a simple cloak. It was made for a larger man, she thought, thick, and colored a creamy white. Checking the sides, neckline, and hem of the cloak revealed none of the magical runes available on such pieces of armor– not even the common ones. The cloak she happened upon was completely ordinary, offering little in the way of protection in a fight. _No matter. At least I won't have to run around unclothed anymore._

Donning the cloak proved to be more difficult than planned. Her weak arm could barely lift the heavy article of clothing over her head. She tried several times, but she knew that she couldn't manage it without two limbs. Grunting, she dropped the almost useless staff, letting herself fall to the ground as well. Utilizing both hands now, she slipped each arm into a sleeve, and fastened the strings in the front to keep it from slipping open. She didn't want to give some random passer-by a show if she could help it. _Not that it wouldn't be funny. _An innocent smile caressed her face. Despite circumstances, she was happy.

Freshly clothed and hunger satisfied, an overwhelming wave of drowsiness overcame her. Staving off the powerful desire to sleep, she stood without the aid of the broken staff, now feeling some of her lost strength returning. Unnatural recovery didn't faze her as she began her trek to the surface; the speedy reversal of her atrophied limbs didn't strike her as odd because she didn't have anything as base of comparison. She simply realized she was getting stronger, and continued onward. Careful onlookers however, would certainly gawk at her visibly expanding musculature. Limping turned to hurried shuffling, and eventually a sauntering walk as her body mended itself. Free of pain, she even began skipping, giggling as a child through blood entrenched halls, and up grisly bone staircases. Blood, she realized, brought her particular comfort. It brought a familiar warmth to her soul, though at the back of her mind, something told her that this newfound comfort was wrong. Much later she would be able to put a name to this little voice, but for now she ignored it, preferring to bask in the simple joy of her happy-go-lucky stroll.

Up was the direction that seemed most natural to her, so up was the direction she went. Wandering aimlessly from level to level brought an acute sense of claustrophobia upon her: the ceilings were definitely hanging lower as she climbed the seemingly endless sets of stairs, she mentally noted. She grew increasingly uncomfortable with the low slung ceiling, crouching lower than she needed to continue her journey, sweat dripping down her newly formed muscles, but not from exertion. For the first time in her short memory, she was unhappy. She ceased skipping.

As with all unsavory feats, the trek to the top seemed to take much longer than the half hour that it really did. Panting lightly from the trip, the woman stretched her arms and legs, arching her back. Cool tingling breezed through her with the refreshing morning moisture of the open atmosphere._ It's funny – that I find myself enjoying such simple things._ She casually fingered her long, electric blue hair, noticing the color fading gently to a more natural reddish brown. Tangles presented themselves to her during her personal preening time. _I'll have to take care of that later._

"You have some pretty strange colored hair, lady." a child's voice interrupted her musings.

She jumped back in surprise, startled at the sight of the boy more than the sound. He was young, perhaps thirteen, pale in complexion, but most disturbing was his wooden leg. It was beaten and didn't seem sturdy enough to hold him up, though it did. Green pants and matching vest adorned his small body, stance heavily favoring his natural limb.

"You've got a pretty strange leg" she replied. This was obviously not the polite thing to say. The boy frowned at her remark, clearly sensitive about the subject. Neither spoke. They watched each other, woman cocking her head to the left, boy cocking his to the right in parallel.

Teeth flashed into a quick grin. Whatever anger had just presented itself had clearly been replaced with a jovial feeling. "I think this is the start of a beautiful friendship, my dear lady."

She found herself grinning as well. The boy was just too damned charming, despite his shady appearance. Her stomach rumbled and the boy frowned again. She saw his mouth moving, figuring he was speaking to her, but she couldn't hear him. Peculiar waves of painful euphoria washed over her suddenly and she fell to the ground, moaning all the while. _What is this feeling? It burns intensely, yet I don't want it to stop. _Her body convulsed beyond control, and she panicked. Her mind raced; _what is going on!_ Her fingers, curled in fright, gouged large chunks of flesh off her hands with her taloned nails. Consciousness ebbed slowly, darkening her vision in delayed fashion. The faint white aura emanating from her body was the last thing she thought about before allowing her eyelids to close.

"Well that was weird" Wirt remarked.

She dreamed of things both familiar and unknown. It seemed as if everything about her was a strange duality.

**OoOoOoO**

Var'Shaan was pleased. His queen had given him command of the second-line troops. The others in her army were not happy, hissing and grunting like spoilt kittens as he paraded before them. To be given such a position, especially to one so new to the group, was a high honor indeed. He smiled to himself, as only a cat warrior can do. The others in the queen's army were pathetic, useless creatures. As if to emphasize his thought, a pair crossed his path, mumbling under their breaths how certain they were that Var'Shaan would lead them to their deaths. _Stupid mongrels_.

Var'Shaan eyed his forces, brimming with pride. His newly acquired minions were stupid, yes. But they could throw with a degree of accuracy, and that was all he needed them to do. His precious potions would do the rest.

Truthfully, the poisonous potions he created were probably the reason he was promoted. No other sabre cat could brew a poison potion as lethal and painful, as his. Var'Shaan's tail curled around his left leg in thought. His queen was fond of pain, particularly when it was inflicted upon her enemies. Var'Shaan's potion was concocted to fulfill her desires, and she had been most pleased. Though other poisons worked faster, had a perfect kill rate, or both, his queen had favored Var'Shaan's magically enhanced poisonous potion over all others, simply because she "liked the way their faces contorted in pain".

His stomach squirmed at the thought of his queen's appreciation for pain, specifically that of any who crossed her. She was particularly fond of her barbed whip, he remembered, striking bound victims with it, ripping chunks of flesh out with each lashing. His queen's habits were disgusting to him, but Var'Shaan was one sabre cat destined for greatness. Dealing with an unsavory master – temporary master – was simply a required step to his destiny.

He heard quick, light footsteps. Spinning on his heel, he faced the source of the noise, a runner from the queen. The creature's tongue hung out of his mouth, as if trying to lap up the cold air into his burning lungs. As he came closer, Var'Shaan picked out details of the runner – it was the same one he sent to notify the queen of the human travelers. Var'Shaan ruffled his fur in an amused disgust. Sabre cats had an intrinsic agility and dense musculature provided respectable strength, when compared to their human counterparts. But this came at the cost of endurance; sabre cats simply didn't have the circulatory or respiration capabilities to sustain prolonged exertion. To make this runner travel such a distance, only to report and be sent back immediately… Well that was just cruel.

"Sir" the runner began. His lungs were numb now, chest heaving to catch his breath. Even his tail and ears hung low. He was about to collapse.

"What are her orders?"

Gasping. "She says to kill them now. She will be here shortly, and she would be _displeased_ if things weren't in order by the time she arrives." Both felines inwardly shuddered at the word displeased. Var'Shaan remembered the last time she was not pleased. He shuddered again. He would not end up like that.

"Var', something big is about to happen. Boss had that look in her eyes again. Like when we raided Satiryah."

Var'Shaan understood what his subordinate was saying. Satiryah had been the groups first, and only, raid on a city. There were over ten thousand people in that city in its prime. Var'Shaan shuddered again. _She burned them alive._

"Catch your breath and make your way to the backup camp. You're no good in a fight like this."

The runner bowed his head in thanks. Breaking formal etiquette, he spoke up again. "Thanks Var'. Be careful, okay? I don't like the smell of this raid." With that, the runner began the long trek to the band's hidden backup camp. Var'Shaan returned his attention to the two humans wandering in his queen's desert.

The male was much closer to the trap, but the female was nowhere to be seen. Var'Shaan bristled his fur in agitation. _Where is she?_ He scanned the tracks from the male back until he could see two clearly defined sets of tracks. The woman's footprints just vanished, as if she disappeared into the ethereal blue night. This did not bode well for Var'Shaan's plans. He signaled to his troupe to start the attack. If they were separated, then it would be relatively simple to track down the woman after her burly bodyguard was dealt with, he thought.

The first volley of poisoned throwing potions crashed all around Ilzan, covering the area in toxic gas. The mercenary refused to go down so easily. He ran straight through the poison clouds towards the first group of Var'Shaan's minions. Var'Shaan noticed the mysterious green glow emanating from the spear-wielding human. _So the human has magics to resist my poisons._

The human was very skilled, Var'Shaan noted. His spear-work was incredibly fluid. At times the human man would spin the spear around defensively, as if it was a Bo staff. Other times, he would thrust and slice like a sabre cat spear hunter. And yet he maintained a style and grace all his own. If he wasn't destroying half his platoon like child's play, Var'Shaan would have admired the artistry of this man's dance.

Var'Shaan gave the signal to his second platoon to attack. Another dozen sabre cats rushed into the fray, whips and javelins at the ready. They moved quietly and quickly. Var'Shaan took time to admire his own troops in action. They were dumb, they were crude, and most of them were quite annoying and disloyal, but they knew how to sneak attack. Despite mounting losses from this single human, Var'Shaan swelled with pride. This was his first act as second in command to his queen and his forces were performing quite well, all things considered.

Ilzan proved too quick for the projectile javelins and various magical potions, but the whips exposed a serious flaw in his fighting style. He was soon bleeding from numerous whip gashes. Sabre cats were naturally flexible and nimble. Natural agility allowed sabre cat warriors to redirect the path of the whip attacks with a flick of the wrist. Try as he might, Ilzan couldn't predict the erratic whip strikes. Pain laced his entire body. His muscles were overworked. He had to strain himself just to raise his spear to intercept javelins thrown at random intervals. He panted hard. He would not last much longer.

A sabre cat snapped his wrist at just the right moment, wrapping his whip around Ilzan's neck. Exposing canines in a feral feline grin, the cat pulled on his whip handle. Ilzan was yanked to the ground, struggling for breath. Fear coursed through him, yet he fought on. A javelin tore through the air with such velocity that the air was split apart in a wailing scream. The javelin ripped into Ilzan's right shoulder in a gruesome splatter of blood and flesh. Surrounded and immobile, Ilzan's mind fumed. _Is this how I am to die?_

"How does my javelin taste, invader?" Var'Shaan mocked. "Your kind should respect-" but he never finished his sentence.

Ozone burned in a palpable tang of electricity. Raging storms loomed overhead, sending chaos incarnate into the remains of Var'Shaans troops. Bolts of angry energy blasted a sabre cat bandit, then jumped to others. Flashes of shimmering green appeared all about the battle scene, and death always followed. One sabre cat had enough sense to break a vial of poison before exploding, and for a few seconds the elements seemed to calm, and the death-marking shimmering green failed to appear.

His stupidly brave men were cowed and confused, failing to follow any order. Then, the raider next to Var'Shaan exploded in a horrific explosion of fire, ruining his freshly cleaned coat of fur. It appeared the elements were not sated just yet. Sabre cats were struck down by raging storms, javelins made of ice, and explosions of fire. Var'Shaan didn't even consider that he was standing still in shock.

One of his men screamed in pain, breaking Var'Shaan of his paralysis. The elements swarmed around him in a brutal fervor, the likes of which he had never witnessed.

Var'Shaan fled.

**OoOoOoO**

Noxious gas clouds still filled desert air. Shattered vials lay under Ilzan's feet – proof of the gruesome battle that had just taken place. The sabre cats, two score at least, bled profusely into the desert sands. Most still grasped firmly onto the bit of life left to them, but their efforts were in vain. Faint gurgling emphasized the point as Ilzan waded through the carnage. Putrid odors wisped to his nostrils, and he crinkled his face in disgust. _If the toxin doesn't get you, the smell sure as hell will._

Broken claws groped at his ankles as he passed a dying warrior of the desert, and Ilzan stopped in his tracks. The creature's face was contorted in pain, gasping for breath that would not come. Remorse flowed through Ilzan, causing him to shudder. Killing beasts or demons had never bothered him; but killing fully sentient creatures was a completely different thing. There was a time, he remembered, when the sabre cat tribes lived in peace with humankind. Trade flourished, and the feline race thrived. Now, the sabre cat species was dying out. They were among the first corrupted by Mephisto's return to power, yet they did not succumb to his will. It was credit to the inner strength of the species.

The feline pleaded Ilzan for mercy with simple eye contact. He was in pain, and Ilzan was the cause. _Hone Sundan_ had left a single rent along the creature's chest, just below the left breast. It was deep, but he would live if treated quickly, albeit scarred horribly. Ilzan mentally recounted the healing potions left in his bag – he had more than enough to save the sabre cat, probably enough to save most of the dying creatures spread across the desert landscape. Ilzan wiped the blood and tears from his salted face, and sighed loudly.

Out of the corner of his eye, Ilzan caught a glimmer of green fabric. Arcanna teleported again, appearing by his side. Her expression was hard, eyes glancing about at random. They had no time to waste. Ilzan looked down upon the pitiful creature begging for help at his feet, and crushed its skull under his greaves.

Arcanna focused briefly, surrounding them both with a blue aura. They reappeared behind a nearby dune in preparation for the next attack upon the remaining raiders. Ilzan sighed loudly once again, pulling a look from his employer.

"What?" she demanded, the anger in her face perfectly matching the venom in her voice.

"It never gets easier."

Arcanna's expression melted into shock. Her mouth curled down in an empathetic frown, but before Ilzan noticed his employer's softened heart, the pair heard growls and hisses. Ilzan and Arcanna slowly crept to the top of the dune. What they saw instilled fear into their very bones.

An army over sixty strong spread across the desert under the waxing moon. It would have been impossible for them to distinguish the shapes from the backdrop of sand, were it not for the glowing satchels each bandit carried. An ugly green glow fought the silver moonlight for dominance in the night, the telltale sing of magically enhanced poison throwing potions. Ilzan didn't let his fear show, remaining strong for his Arabian princess.

Arcanna searched through her satchel, coming up empty. Dread slowly crept its way into her heart, and she realized the consequences. She watched the army progress towards her, eyeing the green orbs the figures carried. Inhaling fumes from one of those vials would ensure a slow, painful death. She knew firsthand just how excruciating sabre cat poisons could be, and she did not want to repeat the experience. _And I just drank the last antidote potion. _Growing resolute, Arcanna's face took on its familiar snarl. She would destroy this army to the last kitty standing. The bandit queen would certainly give them hell for defeating her troops. There would be no mercy at the end of this battle from either side.

"Ilzan" she warned.

"Yes, Arcanna?"

"It is time to kill."

**OoOoOoO**

A/N: That's it for chapter three. How did you like Arcanna and Ilzan? I was always fascinated with the mercenaries from act 2. They use paladin-granted skills, yet are a far cry from holy men. I couldn't resist the opportunity to delve into a character like that. As for Arcanna, she is Flux's sister, and their relationship will be one (of many) focal points of the story. They will both be major characters, as well as the sabre cat queen, and Var'Shaan.

Wirt and his injured female friend will also be an interesting part of the story arc. I intend to explore a different history in the near future, which will offer a different take on the events of the Diablo story line.

Next chapter will go back to Tristram and the interlude between the two Diablo games.


End file.
